


A Rough Night

by SigmaCreations



Series: Our love, our life [1]
Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hangover, Requited Love, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SigmaCreations/pseuds/SigmaCreations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry attempts to drown his sorrows, leaving himself in quite a state. Will Ruth be able to help him? Set on the night of Ros's funeral, altering the timeline of events in that episode a little, but hey, it's AU and my story! All characters belong to Kudos and no copyright infringement is intended. Reviews are very much appreciated. Cheers, S.C.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Hello?” she answers the phone somewhat groggily.

“Good evening, Ms,” an unknown male voice replies. “I'm sorry to disturb you at such a late hour, but I have a customer here who's had one too many and I'm trying to get him home. Could he be your husband by any chance? Your phone number's the first one on his speed dial.”

“Husband?” she asks in surprise and almost tells the man that she's not married before her brain comes fully awake and she asks instead, “What does he look like?”

“About five ten, middle aged, balding, brown eyes and hair, dressed in a nice suit and tie,” the man replies and then adds as an afterthought, “His name's Geoffrey... Barber, Baker, something like that. He has no ID on him, you see. No car keys either. Just cash and his phone.”

One of Harry's legends she remembers as she suppresses the urge to ask the man why he didn't share this information first. “Butler. Yes, he's mine,” she murmurs before she quickly realises what she's said and adds hurriedly, “I mean, I-”

“Well, would you like to come get him then, Ms?” the man interrupts. “It's past closing time see... Or I could put him in a cab?”

“A cab, please,” she replies. She loves Harry dearly, but she's not up to driving through London to rescue him at close to one in the morning because he's decided to drown his sorrows tonight, even if she does feel somewhat guilty about that, knowing that one of his current sorrows is her refusal of his ill timed proposal. So instead she gives the barman her address and hangs up, getting out of bed, pulling on a loose fitting, warm jumper over her camisole, and slipping into her warm sheepskin slippers. She moves towards her bedroom door, pausing on the way to glance at herself in her full length mirror and deciding that she looks presentable enough in her black and white chequered pyjama bottoms and thick blue sweater. Then she quickly nips to the loo before she goes downstairs to make some tea and wait for Harry to arrive.

A good half hour later, she hears the light hoot of a car's horn, so she switches off the TV and peers through the window. A taxi's pulled up outside her home, and she watches as the driver gets out and makes his way to the back door of his cab before she releases the curtain and goes to the door. As she opens it, she sees the cabbie hauling a barely conscious Harry up the path to her house. “Evening, love,” he pants. “Where do you want him?”

“On the settee will be fine, thanks,” she murmurs and steps aside as the man drags Harry though the door, across the living room, and plonks him down on the sofa. Harry mumbles something incoherent before he lies down, struggling to lift his legs onto the sofa, and closes his eyes, falling asleep immediately. Meanwhile, the cabbie turns round and strides back to the door. “Thank you very much,” Ruth smiles. “What do I owe you?”

“Forty two quid eighty, love,” he replies as he stretches his back a little.

“Right,” she murmurs, reaching into her purse and pulling out a fifty pound note. “Here,” she says, handing it to him. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks, love,” he smiles and lifts his hand to touch his forehead in a rather old fashioned gesture of farewell for his age that makes her smile before he turns to leave, murmuring goodnight.

“Goodnight,” she replies, closing and locking the door behind him before she puts her purse away and turns to look at Harry. He's snoring lightly as he lies along her sofa, his head bent awkwardly forward, chin pressed to his chest, one of his legs dangling off the settee, his other stretched out along it. “Oh, Harry,” she sighs as she moves closer, stopping by his feet to pull off his shoes. As she undoes his laces and removes his shoes, she's surprised at how large his feet are and finds herself blushing furiously as she remembers what people say about the size of a man's feet before she swiftly pushes the thought aside and lifts both his legs onto the sofa, something that's not as easy as it looks. Then she picks up a cushion from the arm chair and lifts his head, placing the cushion carefully under it before she lowers it once more and steps back to look at him. He looks a little more comfortable now, she thinks, and he's lying on his side as close to the recovery position as she can get him, which eases her mind a little. Still, she needs to be sure that he'll be okay, so she leans over him and checks his pulse and breathing, making sure that neither is irregular or weak. Satisfied, she straightens up again, and noticing that his tie is still dangling loosely round his neck, she pulls it free, sliding it out from his collar and rolling it up before setting it aside on the coffee table.

“What on earth were you thinking, you stupid man?” she asks softly as she watches him for several moments. Then she sighs, picking up her mug and going to the kitchen where she gets a glass of water for him and a bucket from the broom cupboard and brings them back into the room. She sets the water on the coffee table and the bucket on the floor near his head before she crouches down beside him and runs her fingers gently through his hair. “Bucket's right here if you need it,” she murmurs though she's sure he can't hear her. His face looks a little pale, but his breathing's still steady, and when she checks his pulse again, it's normal, which reassures her. She lets her eyes roam over his face lovingly, ignoring the strong smell of whisky that emanates from him as she drinks him in. She's never been this close to him before; not since that time on the docks when she'd kissed him goodbye all those years ago. But it hadn't been goodbye in the end, and despite what had happened when she'd returned, she's still grateful that she's back here with him, even if they've still not worked things out between them; she'd missed him so much while she'd been away. He's a bit like a bad penny, she thinks with a fond smile, he always turns up again, and she loves that about him. She hopes that she'll never be truly rid of him, no matter how exasperating he might be at times and how strained their relationship. “I do love you so very much, Harry Pearce,” she whispers and presses her lips softly against his forehead. “Even when you do really stupid things, like propose out of the blue at a funeral, or get utterly wasted like this.” She sighs and straightens up, grabbing the throw from the arm chair to her left and covering him before sliding her fingers through his thinning hair once more and murmuring, “Sweet dreams, Harry.” Then she turns, and leaving the lamp in the corner of the room on in case he wakes up, she goes back upstairs.

She gets into bed, but she can't sleep, worried as she is about Harry, and after a few minutes of tossing and turning, she decides that she should stay with him, just in case he gets worse in the night and he needs to go into hospital. She remembers reading somewhere that alcohol continues to be absorbed from the stomach and intestines even after someone's stopped drinking and can rapidly lead to severe alcohol poisoning. She gets up and is about to go back downstairs when she hears Harry being sick. She winces in sympathy as she listens, feeling sorry for him though at the same time thinking that it serves him right; he really shouldn't have drunk quite so much alcohol tonight. She pulls her sweater and slippers back on and steps out of her room, stopping in front of the airing cupboard on the landing and pulling out two blankets before making her way downstairs to check on Harry.

He's sitting on the sofa, the bucket she'd put by his side cradled in his arms, his head hanging down over it, and he looks so very vulnerable that it makes her heart ache. “Harry?” she whispers softly as she enters the room.

He looks up, blinking at her in confusion as he asks incredulously, “Ruth?”

“Yes,” she smiles as she walks towards him, realising that he's somewhat disoriented. “Are you all right? Is there anything I can get you?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn't get a chance to, leaning over the bucket instead as he's sick again. “Oh, Harry,” she sighs as she steps closer, dropping the blankets on the arm chair before taking a seat beside him and running a comforting hand across his shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck and running her fingers through the curls at the nape of it. “How much did you have to drink?”

“I don't know,” he murmurs quietly as he sets down the bucket between his legs and leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees and cradling his head in his hands. She continues to rub his neck for several moments before reaching forward to pick up the glass from the table.

“Here, Harry,” she says, rubbing his arm with her other hand to get his attention. “You need to get some fluids in you. We don't want you to get dehydrated.”

He lifts his head and looks at her for several moments, his normally keen, intelligent eyes looking dull and bloodshot as he takes the glass she holds out to him, taking several greedy gulps of water. She watches him, puzzling over what it is about him being in such a state that she actually finds attractive and rather endearing. She's not usually this tolerant of men who choose to drink to the point of intoxication; in fact, she usually feels nothing but contempt for them. So what is it about Harry in this state that makes her want to take care of him instead of giving him a lecture and sending him on his way? Before she can find an answer to this question, Harry's drained the glass and he's looking at her again. She smiles and takes the glass from his hand as he murmurs his thanks before he turns away and, moving the bucket over, carefully attempts to stand, almost toppling forward.

“Sit down, Harry,” she tells him, pulling him back onto the sofa. “If you pass out, you'll hurt yourself and there's no way I'll be able to get you back on the sofa. You're too heavy for me to lift.”

“Ruth,” he sighs, “I need to use the bathroom.”

“Oh,” she says, feeling her face heat up with embarrassment. Then she clears her throat and asks quietly, “Do you need to pee, Harry, or...” He turns to stare at her in disbelief, so she quickly adds, “because, if you do, you could... just use the bucket.” She looks away quickly and gets up, saying, “I'll go make some tea,” as she swiftly leaves the room.

As she's making the tea, she hears a few crashing noises coming from the other room mingled with quite a bit of colourful swearing and surmises that Harry's stubbornly attempting to reach the bathroom, so she shakes her head in quiet exasperation. She just hopes he's not trying to carry the bucket with him as she doesn't have much hope of him managing to get it there without spilling its contents all over the floor.

When it's ready, she takes the tea and a jug of water through to the sitting room where she finds Harry lying down on the sofa again, his right arm draped across his face, covering his eyes. As her eyes glide over him, she notices two things - that he's removed his jacket and that his trousers are undone. She freezes for a moment and her eyes dart back up to his face, but he doesn't stir so she assumes he's asleep, making her almost sigh with relief; this is embarrassing enough as it is without him being conscious. She swallows and looks down once more, but to her immense relief and, if she's honest, slight disappointment, she can only see a small triangle of the front of his maroon underwear and nothing more. The colour surprises her and she finds herself staring at his groin for longer than she should before she realises what she's doing and quickly looks up at this face, relieved to find him still sleeping. She hadn't really considered what colour underwear Harry might wear, but if she'd been asked, she'd have guessed something conservative, traditional, white, black or grey.

The man is just full of surprises, she thinks with a smile as she sets down the tray she's carrying on the coffee table and reaches for the bucket, carrying it carefully to the bathroom and emptying it in the toilet, glad to see that Harry must have given up the attempt to reach the loo and followed her advise. Poor man. He must have drunk close to a full bottle of whisky to get himself into this state. She rinses out the bucket with Dettol and takes it back to the sitting room, setting it on the floor beside him once more before picking up his jacket, folding it carefully, and draping it over the back of the sofa.

He doesn't look very comfortable lying like this and she wonders if she should offer him the spare bed upstairs, but then she quickly dismisses the idea, remembering that the poor man couldn't even make it to the bathroom. He's lying on his back and she wonders if she should rouse him and get him to lie on his side again, just in case, and after a brief internal debate, she decides that she'd rather be on the safe side, so she whispers his name as she runs her fingers through his hair again. “Harry? Wake up, Harry.” He moans, so she reaches over and starts to pull his right shoulder towards her as she murmurs, “Come on, Harry. You need to roll onto your side.” She tugs more firmly as he begins to stir, grabbing hold of a fistful of his shirt where it covers his shoulder and the belt loop near his right hip as she wills her eyes not to stray to his crotch again where his trousers are still gaping open. “Come on, Harry. That's it,” she says instead, focusing her attention on his face, and with a little more encouragement, she succeeds in getting him to roll over onto his side. Then she grabs a couple of cushions, pushing them behind his back so that he can't roll back again, and bends his right knee, letting it rest in front of his left leg before she reaches for one of the blankets that she brought downstairs and carefully spreads it over him, tucking it between him and the back of the sofa so it doesn't slip off him in the night. She smooths it down, tucking it under his chin and running her fingers through his hair again before checking his breathing and pulse once more. Then she presses her lips softly against his forehead and pulls back, taking a seat in the arm chair and covering herself with the other blanket, before she picks up her book and tea and begins to read, feeling too wide awake to attempt to sleep right now, something she's not really looking forward to doing anyway as she'll have to do it in this arm chair.

She only manages to get through a couple of pages before her attention is drawn to Harry by a sound he makes, and as she raises her eyes to him again, she realises that he's actually crying. His body's shaking from his efforts to suppress his sobs so that he doesn't give himself away, but it's an utterly futile attempt. She stares at him in surprise for a few moments, her shock at seeing him break down like this rendering her both speechless and unable to move for several seconds. She's never seen him shed more than a couple of tears before and even then he's always blamed it on the wind or having something in his eye.

“Harry?” she whispers softly when she's recovered the use of her tongue as she gets up, setting aside her blanket, book and tea. “Harry? What is it? What's wrong?” She moves closer to him, watching as he lifts his hands to cover his face and struggles to turn onto his other side so that he's facing the back of the sofa. Clearly he doesn't want her to see him like this, but it goes against every one of her instincts to leave anyone alone when he's clearly so upset, especially someone as precious to her as Harry. So she pulls the cushions away from his back and waits until he's managed to turn around before she moves close, kneeling on the floor beside him and gently placing her hand against his back. He stiffens for a moment, but as she begins to slide her hand in circles across his back and shoulders, he relaxes somewhat though his chest continues to heave with his sobs and his body to shake uncontrollably. After several minutes, her knees get tired, so she sits down on the floor, pulling the blanket from the armchair around her, and continuing to run her hand up and down his back as she leans sideways against the sofa, her shoulder pressing lightly against his waist, and she begins to hum Greensleeves, an old folk song her mother used to sing to her when she was a child to help her go to sleep.

Initially, it's barely audible over Harry's sobs, but soon he begins to quieten as she suspects he strains to hear her quiet humming. When he's calmed completely, she pulls herself up and murmurs, “I'll go make us some tea, Harry.” Then she places the box of tissues on the coffee table and the rubbish bin next to it on the floor before she leaves the room with their mugs, his still full and hers almost empty.

By the time she comes back, he's sitting up again, leaning back against the sofa with his eyes closed. “Here you go,” she smiles as she sets down his mug on the tray on the coffee table. “Sweet chamomile tea to help settle your stomach.”

“Why am I here, Ruth?” he asks abruptly as he opens his eyes, which are red rimmed and puffy from crying, to look at her.

“Well,” she replies carefully, “the barman, from whichever bar you were in, called me. Apparently I'm the first person on your speed dial, and I told him to send you here in a cab.”

He sighs and hangs his head for a moment before leaning forward and putting his head in his hands. “I'm sorry, Ruth,” he mumbles.

“It's okay, Harry,” she replies. “Now drink your tea. It'll do you good. You need to get some fluids in you, or tomorrow morning, you're going to have the hangover from hell.”

He reaches his hand forward and she notices that it's trembling, and apparently he does too because he pulls it back and rubs his face with it in frustration. “It's okay, Harry,” she reassures him.

“It's not bloody okay, Ruth,” he snaps suddenly, dropping his hands and lifting his eyes to glare at her. “Nothing is bloody okay any more. Perhaps it's _never_ been okay; I've just been too stupid to notice, or too much of a coward to admit it.”

“Harry,” she begins in a soothing voice, “you're-”

“Don't tell me that I'm drunk or emotional again,” he fumes as he sits back and continues to glare at her for several seconds before he demands, “Do you know what I did today, Ruth? _Do_ you? I buried one of the finest, the brightest, the most talented officers I've ever worked with. Then I proposed and was rejected by the woman I have loved for so long that I can no longer remember a time when she wasn't the first person I thought of every morning and the last every night, and after that, I learnt of the betrayal of a man I respected and worked with closely for years. I learnt that he was the reason why my officer is dead, so I went to his home and watched him drink the poison that I gave him and die before my eyes, clutching at my shoes...” She watches him, her eyes filling with tears as she understands the enormity of what has happened to him today and feels her heart break for him. God, she'd been so selfish, so cruel in rejecting him like that. He'd taken her completely by surprise and she'd reacted with anger, without thinking it through properly. The least she could have done was explain herself to him, or even better, ask for some time to think about it. “So don't sit there and tell me that I'm overreacting, or I'm emotional and upset. I should bloody well hope I'm upset. Otherwise I should have been sent permanently to TRING long ago.”

“I'm sorry, Harry,” she whispers, lowering her gaze to the mug cradled in her hands for a moment before looking at him once more. His jaw is set and he's breathing heavily from the effort of holding onto his temper or his tears, she's not sure which. “Would you like me to leave?” she asks uncertainly, not quite knowing what to do right now.

He stares at her for several moments before he shrugs his shoulders and says in a defeated voice, “What the hell does it matter what I want, Ruth? It never seems to make any difference whatsoever to what actually happens...” He looks away for several moments before turning back to look at her and confessing, “Did you know that, when I was a boy, I wanted to work with horses? Become a jockey, a horse trainer, or a vet, anything really that would allow me to work with them. But that wasn't an acceptable career path for the son of a London banker. So I went to Oxford and read history instead, rebelling at every opportunity I got. Then Mum died...” He looks away, but not before she sees the raw emotion in his eyes and it makes her realise that he's probably never allowed himself to grieve properly for his mother and that perhaps he even feels responsible for her death in some way, and she suddenly understands him so much better than she's ever done before. He's silent for several moments before dropping his gaze to his hands and murmuring quietly, “And since then, everything I touch seems to fall apart, everyone I care about dies. Bill, Ben, Archie and Amanda, my little, god-daughter Lucy, Jo, Danny, Colin, Zaf, Adam and Fiona, and now, Ros...

“And do you know what the worst part of it is? It's that becoming a spy was never my ambition. It just happened and I went along with it. The story of my life really...” He shrugs and looks back up at her before adding, “Even _you,_ Ruth... You were thrown into my path and I fell in love with you so gradually that I don't even remember the moment when it happened. But I didn't do anything about it until Juliet told me not to let the opportunity pass me by... So I didn't; I asked you out... But then you left; I lost you and I thought, 'Well, that's that then... Bloody typical'... But I loved you, so even _that_ wasn't enough. So look what happened! You were brought back to watch your family be destroyed, your heart broken, your friends killed, and still you didn't seem to realise that it was all because of me, that it's all my fault. You seemed to care about me still, and it gave me hope that one day maybe we might...” He shakes his head sadly and looks down at his hands for several moments before he lifts his eyes to hers once more and says with feeling, “But the _one time_ in my life when I reached for something _I_ wanted, something I _long_ for, when I reached for _you_ , Ruth...” He stops speaking as tears begin to leak from behind his eyelids again and he shakes his head and brushes them away with his hand, lowering his gaze to his lap. “But after all, why should you be any different from anyone else?” he sighs in defeat. “They've all left me; why wouldn't you?”

“Harry,” she whispers, her heart breaking. She's never seen him like this, so defeated, hopeless and helpless, and it scares her. What if she's finally broken him? How many rejections can a man take, after all? “I-”

“Go, Ruth,” he interrupts. “Just go. Please.” His voice breaks on the last word, and after a momentary hesitation, she quietly gets up and leaves the room, knowing that he won't be ready to listen to her until he's sober and feeling scared that, if she doesn't go, he might attempt to leave her house and she knows he's not well enough to do that now. She goes into the kitchen and sits down at the table, staring blankly into space, thinking, as tears quietly slide down her cheeks. She knows it's the alcohol talking, but it's pretty obvious that, though Harry wouldn't normally allow himself to dwell on such thoughts, they must cross his mind from time to time. And if she thinks about it, it makes sense that he would feel guilty and blame himself, just like she does, especially as he's been doing this for so much longer and has lost so many more people as a result. Poor Harry, she thinks as she recalls his words, his anguished sobs, his haunted eyes. She wonders if he's every cried like he did tonight, for twenty minutes straight. Somehow, she doubts it, and if he has, she's sure it hasn't happened very often. Poor man; poor, poor man.


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes up to the worst hangover he's had in years, the pain in his head so strong that he can't even open his eyes for several minutes. He moans and lifts his hands to his face, pressing the heals of his hands against his eyes as he takes deep breaths in an attempt to control the pain long enough to find some paracetamol.

How much did he have to drink last night, he wonders as he slowly attempts to sit up. And that's when he realises that he's not in bed. He opens his eyes gingerly and blinks a couple of times in surprise. He's not in his house either. Where the fuck is he, he wonders as he takes in his surroundings, pushing the pain in his head to the back of his mind as much as possible. Did he pick someone up at the bar? He looks down and is relieved to find that he's fully clothed. He must have been really out of it last night; he probably passed out on her sofa almost immediately. Only his tie is missing and his jacket and shoes. He looks about for them and frowns as he spots them, his tie rolled up perfectly and his jacket neatly folder so neither gets creased, his shoes resting next to each other on the floor by the end of the sofa. What kind of woman cares about a man's clothes like that when said man just passes out on her settee _before_ anything happens between them? He didn't do something stupid, did he, he thinks in alarm, like propose marriage... The thought jogs his memory and he suddenly knows where he is; he's at Ruth's. He remembers recounting to her what had happened yesterday in an unforgivably aggressive tone, he remembers the tears in her eyes as she listened, and he remembers breaking down and crying his heart out, unable to hold back as she took care of him so tenderly, making him realise all that he could have had if only he'd got his timing right and she'd said yes, and fearing that it is forever beyond his reach now.

His ears, neck and cheeks burn with embarrassment at these memories as he drops his head into his hands. She'd been so kind and he'd been so unforgivably rude. Then he remembers the bucket and how he'd been so out of it that he'd had to use it to relieve himself, and he cringes with shame. God what an utterly uncouth, selfish, bastard she must think him now. He'd even told her to leave. She'd taken him in when he'd been so pissed he couldn't even stand, she'd made sure he was all right, had tucked him in, stroked his hair and kissed his brow, emptied the bucket full of his vomit and piss, and he'd pretty much told her to bugger off! 'What the hell is wrong with you, Pearce,' he thinks in disgust.

He lifts his head again, rubbing his face a couple of times before he gingerly attempts to get up, holding onto the arm rest for support. And that's when he notices that his trousers feel rather loose, and looking down, he discovers that his fly's undone. Dear God, has he no dignity left, he thinks with shame as he buttons up his trousers and pulls the zip closed. His bladder's rather full again, however, and can no longer be ignored while he wallows in self-pity and humiliation. At least his meat and two veg had been safely tucked away inside his underwear and he's no longer feeling dizzy, he thinks grimly as he slowly moves towards the door, trying not to jar his aching head too much and hoping that he can locate the bathroom without too much trouble and without waking Ruth.

As it turns out, the bathroom's just next door, so he steps into the room to use the loo and wash his hands and face, splashing cold water all over his head in an effort to help himself feel human again. His headache seems to be a little better now that he's no longer lying down, though some painkillers are still very badly needed. He pulls open the bathroom cabinet hoping to find some there, but he's out of luck. Perhaps she has some in the kitchen, he decides as he closes it once more and quickly wipes his hands and face on the towel before exiting the bathroom and walking into the kitchen.

As soon as he takes a couple of steps into the room, however, he freezes. There, lying with her head on her folded arms, her face turned away from him, is Ruth. She doesn't move, and after watching the slow rising and falling of her chest for a few moments, he realises that she's asleep. So not only had he disrupted her sleep by coming over here last night, but when he'd so rudely sent her away, she'd come in here, clearly upset after what he'd said to her, and had fallen asleep at the kitchen table. 'God, you really are a bloody idiot, Harry,' he tells himself as he takes a few steps towards her, making no noise at all in his sock covered feet. He stops by her side, his eyes lovingly tracing her sleeping form and lingering on her soft, chestnut hair that is spread out like a fan across her right shoulder, covering her arms and spilling onto the table. 'If it takes you the rest of your life, Harry Pearce,' he thinks, 'you will make this up to her.' He lifts his right hand, unable to resist the temptation to touch her beautiful hair, and reaches forward, picking up a lock gently and rubbing it carefully between his thumb and fingers. It's soft and silky and he can't resist reaching for more, running his fingers through the strands, gently stroking her hair. After a few moments, however, she begins to stir, and he quickly moves to pull away, but then she lets out a low moan of pleasure and a sigh of contentment, making him pause for a second before he resumes the gentle motion of his fingers through her hair, wanting to hear her moan in pleasure at his touch again. She doesn't disappoint and he even thinks he hears her moan his name this time, but he can't be sure. God, if only... if only...

“Oh Ruth,” he sighs softly, his voice barely a whisper as he continues to caress her hair, though his whole being's crying out for so much more. He imagines leaning forward and kissing her hair, her cheek, her lips, imagines her welcoming his touch, his kisses, his love, and he gets so lost in the fantasy that it takes him a moment to realise that she's waking up and lifting her head. He pulls his hand back quickly, letting it drop to his side as he watches her head rise and turn towards him, a groan of pain escaping her lips as she pauses and lifts her hand to her neck before twisting around at her waist to look at him.

He smiles at her and murmurs, “Good morning,” as he watches her blink at him in surprise, her eyes quickly skimming over him as she takes him in, making him feel acutely self-conscious. He really must look a fright in yesterday's rumpled clothes, his face unshaven, his eyes still bloodshot and hung over.

“Good morning,” she smiles as she lifts her head upwards to see him better and then winces at a sudden stab of pain.

“Stiff neck?” he asks sympathetically and wonders if she would think it completely inappropriate if he offered her a neck rub.

“Mmm,” she nods and then swears under her breath at the pain, making him chuckle and then groan as he raises a hand to his head, closing his eyes against the sharp throbbing in his temple. “Not exactly how I'd pictured our first time waking up together,” she says, making his eyes snap open to look at her in shock. She laughs at his expression, teasing, “What? You didn't think you were the only one who'd thought about it, did you?”

“I'd hoped I wasn't,” he murmurs, his gaze softening as his eyes twinkle at her in pleasure. She's so very beautiful this morning with her hair adorably tousled, her blue-grey eyes alight with mischief, her cheeks rosy from sleep and creased into dimples, her lips soft and inviting. There isn't a trace of make-up on her face and yet he knows that he's never seen her look more beautiful or desirable than she does in this moment.

“Well, there you go; the confirmation you've been hoping for,” she smiles, holding his gaze for a little longer and making his heart race. He wants her so very badly just now that he's finding it hard to breathe, and though he valiantly tries to hide it from her, he can't help the way his gaze drops to her lips for a second. It's long enough to shatter the moment, however, and she swiftly looks away and gingerly gets up, saying, “Right. Paracetamol first, I think, then tea, breakfast, shower, and when we're done with all that, we might be ready to talk.”

“Talk?” he asks, his eyes guarded as he watches her turn towards the door. Of course they have to talk, he thinks with resignation. She's a woman after all, and after the way he'd behaved yesterday, it's inevitable that she'll want to talk about it.

“You did a lot of it last night, Harry,” she smiles, making his heart skip several beats, “and I couldn't get a word in edgeways. So this morning, it's my turn to explain some things. Sound fair?”

He nods as the momentary hope he'd felt at her words is crushed and the butterflies take up residence in his stomach. Before he can dwell on the fact that it's apparently make-or-brake time, though he suspects it's unlikely to be the former at this stage, not after his recent behaviour, he feels his head threaten to explode at the abrupt motion and he groans as he reaches his hands up to clutch his head. “Sit,” she murmurs softly, pulling out a chair for him and gently guiding him to it with her hand on his upper arm. Slowly he lowers himself into the chair, the warmth from her hand on his arm working wonders for the pain and making him wonder how much better he would feel if he could just hold her in his arms. “I'll get the painkillers,” she murmurs and lets go of his arm, making him feel bereft without her warm touch. Carefully, he puts his elbows on the table and leans forward, cradling his head in his hands and calling himself all kinds of idiot for getting into this state in the first place. You'd think that after almost sixty years of life he'd know better by now.

He hears her go upstairs and come downstairs soon after, so he sits up and turns towards the doorway. She smiles at him as she steps into the kitchen and goes to the sink, filling a glass with water before opening the box of painkillers. “Here,” she says as she walks over to him, placing two of the caplets into his palm and the glass of water on the table.

“Thanks,” he murmurs and swallows the paracetamol, draining the glass as he figures he must be really quite dehydrated. Then he turns to watch as she moves over to the fridge and begins to pull things out for breakfast.

“Omelet, okay?” she asks without turning round.

“Yes, thank you,” he replies as he struggles to control his eyes that are roaming appreciatively over her back side as she bends over in front of the fridge. “Can I help?” he asks, as much to distract himself as out of a desire to be useful.

“No, it's fine, Harry,” she smiles as she turns towards him. “Onion, green and red pepper, avocado, mushrooms, tomato and celery all right?”

“Everything but the celery,” he frowns. “Though I must admit I've never tried avocado in an omelet before.”

“I put it in afterwards,” she smiles. “You know, fold it in the middle. It's full of healthy fats. Very good for you.”

“Right,” he nods and groans again at the pain. She laughs and he sighs before grumbling, “You'd think I'd have learned not to do that by now.”

“I don't think anyone can break a habit that fast, Harry,” she soothes as she pulls out a bowl and proceeds to crack the eggs.

He watches her for a few moments as she beats the eggs with a fork before he gets up, and moves to stand next to her, saying, “Let me do something, Ruth.”

“Harry, really, it's fine,” she smiles up at him as she lifts a hand to push her hair out of her face and back behind her ear. “Rest. You've had a rough night.”

“I'm not an invalid, Ruth. I want to help,” he murmurs, her proximity and warm smile sending the butterflies in his stomach into a flurry of activity again. “It's the least I can do after...” he tails off and drops his gaze in embarrassment.

“Okay,” she relents and steps back, pulling open the cupboard in front of her and reaching down for the grater. “Here,” she says, handing it to him. “You could grate the cheese. There are bowls in the cupboard up there.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs before he turns, takes out a bowl, places it on the counter and picks up the grater and piece of cheddar. He begins to grate as Ruth cleans and chops the vegetables, adding them to the butter in the hot pan on the cooker where they sizzle and emit an aroma that has his mouth watering in seconds. He hadn't quite realised how hungry he is. Soon the cheese is grated, so he picks up the kettle and fills it up, flicking it on to make some tea. “Tea bags? Coffee?” he asks.

“I'm afraid I'm out of coffee,” she frowns, giving him an apologetic look. “I ran out last week and forgot to buy some yesterday.”

“It's fine,” he reassures her. “Tea's probably better for me anyway.”

“Tea bags and loose tea, if you prefer, are in the cupboard up there to your left,” she smiles. “Sugar's there too and the teapot and tea cups are behind you.”

So while she chops the last of the veggies he makes them a pot of tea and toasts some bread in the toaster, buttering it while it's hot and placing it on a plate in the middle of the table. “Is there any water left?” she asks as he puts the kettle down again after filling the teapot.

“Yes, a little. Why?” he replies.

“I need it for the eggs,” she smiles, picking it up and pouring a little into the eggs as she beats them with the fork before she quickly pours the egg mixture into the pan with the veggies. “My Nana taught me this trick. It makes the omelet lighter,” she explains as she puts the dirty bowl in the sink and fills it with water. He smiles and lifts the lid from the counter-top, placing it over the frying pan and turning to find her watching him.

“Thanks,” she smiles, holding his gaze for several moments and making his heart race again. The way she's looking at him this morning is different, her gaze bolder and more direct than usual, and it makes him wonder what it means. His heart whispers that it's because she's finally admitted to herself that she loves him and is ready to give them a chance, but his mind is telling him that it's more likely to be because she's finally realised what a hopelessly damaged bastard he really is and she's relieved to be well shot of him. Either way, from her unusual confidence around him this morning, it's clear that she's made a decision where he is concerned, and he can't help but fervently hope that it's the former rather than the latter.

“Best set the table,” she says as he looks away, scared that his feelings are clearly visible in his eyes. He nods and swears again at the pain, making her laugh as she turns away and pulls open the drawer with the cutlery. “The place-mats and napkins are in the table drawer,” she says as she puts the cutlery on the table and turns to get the plates, so he steps forward and pulls open the drawer, extracting two thick cork place-mats with scenes of Devon and two cloth napkins. He smiles as he places them on the left of each place-mat and picks up the cutlery; hardly anyone bothers with cloth napkins these days, but it doesn't surprise him that Ruth does.

“What are you thinking?” she asks, and when he lifts his eyes to look at her, he finds her keenly watching him.

“You said no talking until after we've eaten,” he smiles and is delighted when she laughs.

“You're quite right. So I did,” she agrees, turning back to the cooker and checking the eggs before switching off the ring and flipping them over.

“That smells heavenly, Ruth,” he sighs as he stops beside her and picks up the teapot, ready to carry it to the table. “I'm ravenous.”

“Good job I had six eggs then, isn't it?” she smiles at him before turning back to serving their omelet.

“I'm sure my doctor would have something to say about that, Ruth,” he replies as he walks back to the table and puts down the pot.

“And since when do you listen to your doctor, Harry?” she teases.

“Ouch,” he winces, taking out the milk and placing it next to the sugar and teapot. “That was below the belt, Ruth.”

“Well, you know what they say, Harry,” she smiles.

“What?” he asks as he takes a seat and looks up at her.

“All's fair in love and war,” she winks before turning back to putting the avocado slices in their omelet.

“I'm almost too scared to ask which of the two we're engaged in,” he murmurs softly after a moment's hesitation.

She pauses in the act of picking up their plates to bring them over and frowns at him as she declares, “Harry, it's stupid comments like that that'll result in you getting this lovely omelet in your face rather than on a plate... and, if that happens, it really will be war.”

He gives her a sheepish smile in apology and soon they're sitting down to a lovely breakfast of omelet with toast and piping hot tea. He moans in appreciation after taking his first bite, murmuring, “Ruth, this is the best breakfast I've had in years.”

“Good,” she smiles, taking another sip of her tea.

They eat in silence after that until their plates are empty. Then Harry leans back in his chair, and raising his eyes to hers, says, “That was delicious. Thank you, Ruth... for breakfast... and for taking care of me last night... I really appreciate it and I'm sorry about... what I might have said. I don't recollect everything, but I know I was unforgivably rude and-”

“It's fine, Harry,” she smiles, reaching her hand across the table and squeezing his gently. “Really. I'm actually glad you came here last night... But listen, I really need a shower, and I'm sure you'd like one too, so how about we do that before we have this conversation. All right?”

“Yes,” he murmurs, squeezing her hand gently in return as he feels hope blossom in his chest at the softness of her gaze as she looks at him.

“Right,” she says, getting up and carrying her plate to the sink. “I'll go on up and get things ready; then I'll call you.”

“Okay,” he replies as he watches her go, struggling to push aside the images of Ruth in the shower with him that invade his mind at her words. Then shaking himself free of these tantalising thoughts, he gets up and starts to put things away before doing the washing up and cleaning up the kitchen. While he's drying the table with the tea-towel, he suddenly remembers that it's Saturday today and he needs to get to work. How could he have forgotten that, he wonders in amazement as he straightens up and glances at the kitchen clock; he can't even recall the last time work had completely slipped his mind like this. It's just gone seven he sees with relief before spreading out the tea-towel to dry on the back of a kitchen chair and pulling out his phone. Ruth has the day off, he remembers as he dials the grid and makes a quick decision to call in sick with food poisoning or something; Ruth wants to talk, and even if their conversation will quite likely spell the end of all his hopes and dreams, they have to set things straight between them for both their sakes; things can't continue like this.

He speaks to Lucas, ascertaining that everything's quiet and asking him for a brief update before giving him some directions and rather brilliantly, he thinks, asking to speak to Ruth. He's told that she's got the day off, so he sounds suitably annoyed before telling Lucas to have someone look into a couple of small things and ringing off after saying that he'll try to come in after lunch if he's feeling any better. When he's done, he slips his phone back into his pocket and goes back into the lounge to wait, sitting on the sofa and closing his eyes. His headache is much better now, the painkillers finally beginning to do their stuff, but he certainly didn't get anywhere near enough sleep last night and his eyes are tired and gritty.


	3. Chapter 3

It seems like moments later when he hears her voice calling him though, in reality, it's probably been at least half an hour, which makes him think that he must have dozed off. He gets up and walks to the stairs, mounting them slowly and trying hard not to think about the fact that he's going upstairs in Ruth's house, a scenario he's imagined countless times though, or course, his destination has always been her bedroom, not the shower. Although, now he comes to think of it, the shower has featured quite prominently in a number of his fantasies about Ruth. 'Stop it, Harry,' he tells himself as he steps onto the landing and turns to face her. The space is rather small, a fact that isn't helping him at all in controlling his desire for her, especially when she's looking so beautiful, her outfit of jeans and a tight-fitting blue top hugging her curves just perfectly, her hair still damp from her shower and curling at the edges.

Her voice, when she speaks, is slightly higher than usual, and he's thrilled to see that her gaze is lingering on his throat as if noting for the first time that his shirt is unbuttoned at the top. “I've put out what I thought you might need next to the sink,” she says, speaking faster than usual as she blushes prettily, making his heart rate soar. “Feel free to use soap, shampoo, toothpaste, whatever you need and let me know if there's anything missing.”

“Thank you, Ruth,” he murmurs, his voice deep and sensual as he struggles to tear his eyes away from her when every part of him is willing him to reach for her and wrap her in his arms. Eventually, he succeeds, stepping past her quickly and entering the bathroom, pushing the door closed behind him and leaning against it as he struggles for control. “Pull yourself together, Pearce,” he growls to himself and steps away from the door, stripping out of his clothes quickly, using the loo and getting into the shower. When he comes out again, he's feeling much better and in control of himself once more. He shaves and brushes his teeth with the new toothbrush and razor she's set out for him, before reluctantly getting dressed in yesterday's clothes. They stink of sweat, booze and smoke and he really wishes that he had something else to put on instead, but unfortunately, he doesn't. So slipping them back on, he towels his hair dry and smooths it back with his hands before leaving the room and going back downstairs.

Soon they're sitting side by side on the sofa with a second cup of tea in their hands, saying nothing, both of them suddenly feeling self-conscious and rather nervous. Harry's the one to pluck up the courage to speak first, murmuring, “About last night, Ruth...” He pauses, not sure how to phrase what he wants to say.

“Yes?” she encourages when he falls silent again.

He glances round at her and then away before he clears his throat and admits quietly, “I don't remember all of what I said and did... I... I'm sorry you had to... deal with me in that state. I-”

“It's okay, Harry,” she smiles, reaching a hand over to squeeze his knee. “I meant what I said earlier; I'm glad you came and I'm glad you're here. I actually... _enjoyed_ taking care of you last night.”

He looks up at her in surprise, his mind reeling and he can't help but feel confused. “But I thought you didn't want that after... what you said... re what I said,” he blurts out. She sighs and leans back against the sofa, lifting her hand from his knee to cradle her mug in both hands before taking another sip of her drink, making him regret his outburst and feeling no closer to understanding her at all. “I don't understand, Ruth,” he admits quietly as he drops his gaze to his hands and then lifts it to her face once more. She watches him for several moments, her gaze unfathomable and he feels the frustration mounting inside him. He's never really understood women very well and Ruth has been more exasperating than all the rest of them put together. He's asked himself many, many times why he still loves and wants her when all she ever does is frustrate and hurt him, but as yet, he hasn't been able to figure it out. The chase is part of it, he knows, as is her unpredictability, the way she always challenges him and keeps him on his toes, and of course, all those wonderful qualities she has that he'd listed for her on their one, wonderful date, a life time ago now, and his certainty that they would be perfect together if she were to ever let it happen.

He sighs and takes another swig of his tea, draining the cup and reaching forward to put it on the coffee table, and as it connects with the surface of the coaster, he hears her say, “Tell me something, Harry. What do you think is the most important thing in a relationship?”

“That depends on the relationship, Ruth,” he replies carefully as he sits back and turns to look at her, unsure if this is some kind of trap.

“Okay, our relationship,” she clarifies.

“I'm not sure what you mean,” he frowns, seeking more information before he answers, scared that he'll do more harm than good if he ventures forth an opinion without it.

“Okay, fine,” she sighs. “I'll answer first. For me the most important thing in a relationship, _our_ relationship, apart from the obvious, is trust... And the way I want to experience that trust is for you to need and rely on me in our private lives as you do in our professional lives. At work, you ask my opinion, you share your thoughts, and sometimes your doubts, and we talk about and solve problems together. I don't mean we do this all the time, but enough of the time. You trust me to see your weaknesses and help you through the tough times, and I love that. It's one of the main reasons why I enjoy my job despite the enormous personal cost that comes with it for all of us... But last night was the first time I've ever experienced that in our private lives. You were completely helpless, Harry. You couldn't even get yourself to the bathroom and I loved that. Not that you were ill and suffering, but that you needed me. You've never needed me before, Harry. I can count the times when you've shown yourself to be in need of comfort or a kind word on the fingers of both hands, and in most of those instances, you've brushed off my attempts to reach out to you...”

She pauses for a moment and he opens his mouth ready to tell her that she can hardly talk and that something about pots and kettles springs to mind, but he thinks better of it and instead closes his mouth again and waits for her to continue as he's sure there's more she wants to say, judging from the way she's tracing the rim of her mug with her finger, a tell tale sign that she's working something out in her mind that she'll soon share with him.

She doesn't disappoint as, seconds later, she says, “As to your proposal... I confess, it took me completely by surprise. Since I've got back, we've been for one drink together, Harry, during which we discussed work almost the entire time, and then you ask me to take the leap into marriage, just like that?... It was too much and I know I handled it terribly and I hurt you very deeply, especially with my comment about the thousands of other times... I'm sorry, truly sorry, Harry.” She raises her eyes to his then and he sees the sincerity in them and the regret, so he nods in acknowledgement though his heart still aches, the memory of that moment when she'd crushed his hopes and dreams so quickly, so harshly still raw and painful.

“I was angry,” she continues as she drops her gaze once more, “that you'd put me on the spot like that and upset about Ros... and the _reason_ you gave me was...” she falls silent and shakes her head as she fiddles with the mug cradled in her hands. She sighs and then murmur, “Anyway, it doesn't matter now. What I'm trying to say is that I didn't mean it. The truth is that perhaps there were a handful of times when I might have said yes, but I doubt that I would have, simply because we've only ever been on _one_ date, Harry. And it _was_ lovely and I _do_ believe that we still have something special, something worth treasuring and nurturing, but I can't just take the leap into marriage like that. I'm not impulsive or brave enough to do it...”

“Ruth,” he murmurs softly when she falls silent again and doesn't seem to be readying herself to say anything more, his heart hammering against his ribs as hope blossoms deep inside him, “what are you saying?” He watches her intently, holding his breath as he waits for her response, his heart in his mouth and every nerve in his body taut with tension.

She lifts her eyes to his then and gives him a small smile before dropping her gaze to her hands again as she whispers, “I guess what I'm saying is that, though I can't marry you right now, Harry, I _would_ like to date you... because I too am in love with you and I have been for a very long time.”

His eyes have never left her face as she speaks, yet hers have been focused mostly on her mug, though she's been raising them every so often to glance at him, and right at this moment in time, he's grateful for it as his emotions threaten to overwhelm him completely. He exhales heavily, and for a moment, he doesn't know if he's going to laugh, cry, or get up and dance around the room in joy. He lifts his right hand to cover his eyes, his breathing rugged as he struggles for control. It takes him a few moments, but eventually he drops his hand and lifts his eyes to find her watching him and he asks in a deep voice filled with emotion, “Do you mean that, Ruth?”

“I do,” she smiles. “I love you.”

He has to close his eyes again and take several deep breaths before he can speak, the jumble of emotions that he's feeling rendering him incapable of clear thought, let alone speech. “Then I'm profoundly grateful for whatever I said or did last night that made you change your mind, Ruth,” he murmurs eventually as he opens his eyes and turns to look at her, his heart flooding with a joy so great that he can't help the way it infuses his face and the smile that curls his lips and crinkles his eyes, “and even this colossal hangover will be worth it if you'll have dinner with me tonight.”

“I will,” she smiles, letting go of her mug with her left hand and reaching for his right one that's resting on his thigh.

He turns his hand under hers and grips it tightly as he scans her face lovingly, taking in her flushed cheeks, the way her eyes gaze at their joined hands and she catches her bottom lip between her teeth. “Ruth?” he murmurs huskily, watching as her eyes rise to meet his.

“Yes?” she whispers breathlessly, her cheeks taking on a deeper rose hue.

“May I kiss you?” he asks as his eyes drop to her lips before darting up to meet hers again, and he's unable to mask the longing in his gaze that is mingled with hope, love and desire.

“Yes,” she breathes, making him smile in delight briefly before he leans forward, his gaze dropping to her beautiful, full lips again. She mirrors his motion, meeting him half way, his soft, warm lips pressing gently against hers before he pulls back only to take her mug from her hand, place it on the coffee table and come back for more as his free hand rises to cup her right cheek. She sighs in pleasure, opening her lips below his and slipping her tongue forward, running it slowly over his lips until his mouth opens. Then she sucks, drawing his lower lip into her mouth, making him moan in approval as his right hand releases hers and slides round her waist, drawing her closer. They explore each other's mouths tentatively at first, but then their kiss begins to change, growing in intensity and passion, her fingers slipping under the collar of his shirt, sliding across the back of his neck and onto his shoulder and making his skin tingle as his hand glides under her top to cup her breast and squeeze it gently, his thumb stroking her hardened nipple across the thin, lacy fabric of her bra. He traces the line of her jaw with kisses and she tilts her head back to give him better access, but next moment, she moans in pain, making him draw back in alarm.

“Are you okay?” he asks huskily, pulling back and panting heavily as his hand reluctantly slips back to her waist.

“My neck,” she replies as she reaches a hand up to rub it. “I forgot it was stiff.”

He gives her a wry smile and murmurs, “My aches and pains slipped my mind too, Ruth. Clearly we should do this more often.”

He looks at her, feeling suddenly a little apprehensive, unsure of her reaction, and feeling relieved when she smiles and teases, “Oh, I hope so, Harry. You're really rather good at that. Kissed a lot have you?”

“Some,” he grins and then offers, “Would you like me to rub your neck, Ruth? It might help relax the muscles.”

“Good with your hands too, are you, Harry?” she asks with a wink.

“Well, I... er... I'll leave that for you to decide,” he stammers as he feels his cheeks flush, feeling a little thrown by this new flirtatious side of Ruth.

She laughs at his embarrassment and squeezes his hand before getting up and moving to stand in front of him saying, “Open your legs then, so I can sit on the floor.”

“Right,” he murmurs as he parts his knees and watches her turn and settle herself on the floor in front of him with her back towards him. He reaches forward and pushes aside her hair, placing his hands on her neck and gently stroking her soft skin for a few moments before he begins to press against it more firmly, seeking out the tension in her muscles and working to release it. Soon she's groaning in pleasure and he has to work hard to control his body's response to the sounds of enjoyment she's making.

She pulls her knees up and drops her forehead onto them, giving him better access to her neck as she murmurs, “God, Harry, that's so good,” and making him almost groan with want. If she keeps this up, he won't be able to hide his arousal, he realises as he struggles to keep his breathing even. “Mmmm,” she hums a few moments later, “you _are_ good with your hands, Harry.”

He swallows, but then it suddenly occurs to him that she must be aware of what she's doing and that perhaps she's trying to provoke a reaction out of him. So he leans forward until his mouth's right next to her ear and he hears her breath hitch, making him smile in satisfaction as he whispers in a deep, silky voice, “You have _no_ idea, Ruth.” She whimpers softly so he adds quietly, “But I'd be happy to show you... any time you like. All you have to do is ask... All you've _ever_ had to do is ask.”

She sighs in contentment, making him smile as he pulls back and begins to massage her neck once more before moving down to her shoulders and upper back, deciding not to worry about his body betraying his desire for her any more, but to just enjoy the pleasure of touching Ruth like this. Besides, it's not as if either of them are in any state to do anything about it right now. He's hungover and neither of them have slept enough, and he's sure that he doesn't want their first time to be like this. He wants to be entirely sober, rested and able to enjoy every moment to its fullest.

He has no idea how many minutes have passed when she finally sits up, murmuring her thanks. “It's my pleasure, Ruth,” he replies as he watches her stand and turn to face him.

She smiles, saying, “Another?” as she lifts their mugs off the coffee table.

“Please,” he nods and watches her leave the room, enjoying the pleasure of admiring her figure without having to hide it from anyone for a change and finding it rather liberating. She really is absolutely stunning he thinks as he sighs and leans back against the sofa, closing his eyes in bliss. Who would have thought that getting plastered and turning up at her house last night would have turned out to be one of the best things he's ever done?

 

* * *

 

“Harry?” she murmurs as he feels her hand slide through his hair, just like it had last night.

He hums in contentment, mumbling, “I love it when you do that, Ruth,” before he sighs in pleasure.

“Do you?” she smiles and continues to stroke his hair, making him moan and reach his hand out blindly towards her, his eyelids feeling too heavy to lift. Her hand closes round his and she brings it up to her face, placing kisses against his knuckles and making him smile. “And I love it when you're half asleep, Harry Pearce,” she whispers. “You look happy and relaxed.”

“I'm not half asleep,” he protest as he pulls her hand towards his lips and proceeds to kiss her knuckles in turn before turning it over and planting kisses against the inside of her wrist and palm. “Though I _am_ happy, Ruth. Very happy.” He opens his eyes then and looks at her, not even attempting to hide his feelings from her that are clearly visible in his gaze. “I love you, Ruth,” he whispers.

“I know, Harry,” she smiles and presses her lips against his in a soft, tender kiss. “I love you too.” She pulls back to look at him again and says, “Now, come on... upstairs. You need to sleep.”

“I'm fine, Ruth,” he protests as she stands and begins to tug on his hand.

“You're exhausted, Harry. I left you for less than a minute and you were practically snoring.”

“I don't snore,” he frowns as he relents and lets her pull him upright.

“You do too,” she smiles, “or at least, you do when you're completely sloshed.”

“Well, that really doesn't count, Ruth,” he scowls. “I most definitely don't snore under normal circumstances.”

“Prove it,” she challenges, her eyes alight with mischief.

“How?” he asks though he has a pretty good idea what she's going to suggest.

“Come to bed,” she murmurs, blushing slightly. “We both got very little sleep last night, so let's sleep now... together.”

“Ruth,” he breathes, already feeling his body respond to the image of lying in bed with her, “I don't think that's such a good idea.”

“Why?” she asks. “Are you worried you won't be able to sleep? Because I can assure you that _I_ don't snore... unlike you, of course.”

He chuckles softly and nods his agreement, unable to resist this new playful Ruth or deny her anything. “All right,” he agrees, hoping that he really is tired enough to manage to behave himself. “I can see I'm going to have to prove it to you. Lead the way then.” And she gives him such a warm, delighted smile that he knows it's worth every moment of discomfort he might experience in a few minutes as he has to fight his desire for her.

They make their way upstairs to the landing once more and he can't help but think back to his earlier trip upstairs and how different it feels to know that she wants him here, that he's welcome in her home and in her bed. “Penny for them,” he hears her say and turns to find her watching him keenly.

“I was just thinking how different I feel this time,” he replies, endeavouring to be honest, “coming upstairs with you.”

“In what way?” she asks, her beautiful, blue eyes alight with curiosity.

“I don't feel like I'm intruding,” he murmurs. “I feel welcome.”

“You've always been welcome, Harry,” she smiles and turns towards the door to their left. “My bedroom,” she says as she pushes open the door and leads the way into the room. He follows her in and looks around, taking in the warm, pale yellow paint on the walls, the double bed straight in front of them with a simple oak head-board and a foot-board that's lower than the mattress, the throw that covers the bed with splashes of countless colours, the two simple, bedside tables with a lamp on each one, the lampshades streaked with colours to match the bed-covers, the wardrobe and chest of drawers over on one side, both simple and functional, the full length mirror in the corner next to the single chair, and the bookshelves all along the wall to their right. He smiles as his eyes alight on them and he quickly scans the books there, noting with interest that there appears to be no rhyme or reason to this collection that seems to span all genres and many languages, though he's sure that Ruth will know exactly where to find every single book in it. The books shelves aren't tall and he finds he likes that, he likes this room; it's somehow very Ruth. On top of the shelves and the chest of drawers are a few framed pictures, little trinkets and ornaments, and stones and treasures that she's collected and he wonders what the story behind each one is.

He turns to her and sees her watching him carefully, trying to gauge his reaction, so he smiles warmly and says, “I love it, Ruth. It's very you.”

“Thank you,” she smiles and moves further into the room, stopping by the bed and pulling out her pyjamas from under her pillow. “I'll just nip to the bathroom while you look around,” she adds.

“All right,” he nods and moves over to the bookshelf, picking up a beautiful, pink shell and turning it in his hands to examine it. When he looks up to ask her about it, however, she's already left the room, so he puts it back down and picks up the Chinese puzzle box right next to it. He smiles as he remembers having one as a boy and sets about trying to open it, delighting in the simple challenge. It takes him a little while to work it out, but eventually it springs open, making him almost exclaim in triumph. He pulls the drawer out and looks inside, expecting it to be empty, but instead, finding an odd assortment of little things, a small, round, white button, a marble with swirls of red in its centre, half of a geode, a cloakroom ticket, and an old, faded passport photo of a man. He frowns as he discovers this and turns towards one of the windows that's located between two of the three bookshelves so he can see more clearly in the light. He looks to be a little younger than himself, but the photo is old and faded in black and white, and as he stares at it for several moments, he realises that this man looks very much like Ruth.

“It's my dad,” she whispers softly, making him almost jump as he turns swiftly to face her and stammers an apology for intruding into her privacy.

“I'm sorry, Ruth,” he murmurs. “I didn't expect it to contain anything. I was just caught up in the challenge of solving the puzzle.”

“It's all right, Harry,” she smiles as he hands her the box and photograph. “I'd almost forgotten I had these in here. Mum kept it, you see, when I... left. I use to love this box as a child, so she kept it. I put this photo in here after Dad died. I have others of him, larger ones. There's one over on the chest of drawers.”

He nods and glances up at the picture she indicates before turning back to her and asking softly, “And the other things?”

“Dad gave me the marble. He used to be really good at the game as a boy and he always used to say that this was his lucky marble. We found the geode together. It's not a very impressive one, but it's always been special because we found it,” she explains quietly.

“And the button was from his shirt?” he guesses when she falls silent, lost in memories.

She looks up at him then and grins, the twinkle returning to her eyes as she leans in and whispers conspiratorially, “No, actually, I stole the button.”

“You stole... a button?” he asks incredulously.

“Yes... See I was in love with this man who was way out of my league,” she continues with a blush.

“Out of your league?” he asks lightly, though his insides are already churning with jealousy. “I find that hard to believe, Ruth. What was so special about him?”

“Oh, you know, he was important, powerful, smart, sexy and charming. The kind of man who wouldn't look at me twice,” she explains.

“His loss,” he whispers as he bends forward so that their eyes are almost level.

She smiles and clears her throat before continuing, “Anyway, one day he'd hurt his shoulder and had to wear a sling, which he didn't like one little bit, I might add, so when he removed his tie, as he did on occasion, and he tried to unbutton the collar of his shirt one handed, he got so frustrated that he yanked it open, making the button fly off into a corner of the room.”

“From where you retrieved it,” Harry smiles, his eyes alight with pleasure as he realises she's talking about him. “And you never gave it back?”

“Well, no,” she murmurs as she drops her gaze to the button in her hand. “I didn't think he'd miss it that much, seeing as he never even bothered to look for it, and besides... I wanted something to... hold onto... to remember him by.”

“And the cloak room ticket?” he asks softly as he takes half a step closer.

“It's from our one and only date,” she explains, dropping the button back into the box, sliding it shut, and returning the box to its place on the bookshelf before raising her eyes to look at him.

He smiles down at her, lost for words. All this time, she'd loved him enough to keep such unimportant, little things that reminded her of him in her childhood treasure box alongside mementoes of her beloved father. “Why didn't you tell me?” he asks eventually.

“That I'd kept one of your buttons as a memento?” she replies in surprise. “You would have sent me straight to TRING.”

“No,” he whispers, leaning in and reaching for her arm, running his hand from her shoulder down to her elbow. “Why didn't you tell me how _much_ you felt for me?”

“I wasn't sure my feelings... my love was reciprocated,” she confesses quietly.

“I talked to you of Grand Tours, Ruth,” he murmurs. “You _must_ have known I was thinking of you as my companion.”

“I wasn't sure...” she sighs. “I wasn't sure _what_ you wanted, Harry. I thought perhaps... it was just a pick up line, or something. I was trying so hard not to be naïve... Too hard, it would seem. Powerful, worldly men like you... they don't want to share their lives with naïve analysts, no matter how brilliant they are. I was trying not to pin my hopes on you wanting more than just a short fling.”

“If I'd known, Ruth,” he whispers softly as he pulls her into his arms, “I would have fought for you. I wouldn't have let Oliver take you away. I would have gone to the ends of the earth for you, Ruth.”

“I didn't want that, Harry,” she sighs into his chest. “It was my turn to take one for you and the team, and you were needed here. You couldn't have come after me. It had to be like that, you know it did... but I missed you. Oh, how I missed you.”

“Me too, my Ruth,” he murmurs against her hair. “You have no idea how much. I hoped you were happy, and yet, rather selfishly, some days, I hoped you were as miserable as me. Where you happy, Ruth?”

“I was,” she smiles, “as much as I could be without you. I was content, and some days, even happy, but then there were other days when I missed you so much that I almost couldn't get up in the morning.”

“Even with George,” he dares to whisper.

“Especially with George,” she sighs. “George was a lovely man, but he wasn't you, Harry. And I've always wanted just you.”

He tightens his arms around her, wanting to kiss her but knowing that, if he does, he'll lose what little self-control he has left and take her to bed, and he's promised himself not to do that until he's sober and rested so that it can be perfect, like he's always dreamt it would be. “I'll never let you go again, Ruth,” he growls fiercely. “Never. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Harry,” she mumbles into his shirt. “Never let me go.”

They stand like this for several minutes wrapped in each other's arms and lost in memories and hopes for their future, until he pulls back a little and smiles down at her, saying, “I'd best go...” he tails off and nods towards the bedroom door.

“Yes,” she agrees, releasing him and watching him until he walks through the bedroom door, pausing on the threshold to look at her before making his way to the bathroom. He uses the loo and brushes his teeth again, splashing cold water on his face before coming back to the bedroom and finding her already safely tucked under the covers. She's drawn the curtains and pulled the multicoloured throw back, and he's surprised to see that the duvet cover is plain yellow to match the walls, sheets and pillow cases.

“Coming in?” she asks with a smile, so he nods and empties his pockets, setting his phone, keys, money clip and a few coins on the bedside table before pulling off his trousers, draping them over the chair in the corner and unbuttoning his shirt. Then he removes his cuff-links and sets them on the bedside table next to his phone, and pulling his shirt off, he drapes it over the back of the chair.

When he turns to look at her, she's smiling in amusement and he can't help feeling a little self-conscious as he murmurs, “What?”

“Nothing,” she shakes her head, making him frown at her.

“There's clearly something that's amusing you, Ruth,” he grumbles, “and as you're laughing at me, I'd like to know why.”

“I'm not laughing at you, Harry,” she objects. “I'm just happy... I like that you wear cuff-links, that's all. Not many men do nowadays and I like it.”

“Mmm,” he hums as he sits on the edge of the bed and pulls off his socks, throwing them onto the chair. Then he turns to look at her and asks shrewdly, “Is that all?”

“Well, no,” she confesses as she glances down at his underwear and back up at him, “I was also rather surprised by the colour of your...”

“Trunks?” he provides helpfully with a smile. “Why would that surprise you?”

“I thought they'd be more traditional,” she murmurs, blushing furiously. “You know, white or black or grey or something.”

“So,” he smiles as he slips under the covers and lies down beside her, “is it a good surprise?”

“Oh yes,” she grins, rolling onto her back and closing her eyes. “A very good surprise. Now go to sleep, Harry. You're exhausted.”

“Just like that,” he teases as he rolls onto his side, propping his head on his hand to watch her. “No goodnight kiss or anything?”

“It's not night time, Harry,” she smiles, yet her eyes remain closed. “It's a very early siesta.”

“Surely they have good siesta kisses in Spain, Ruth,” he grins, watching as her lips twitch in amusement.

“They don't,” she says and reaches her hand toward him, her eyes still remaining resolutely closed. “Now go to sleep, or you'll never prove to me that you don't snore.”

“Fine,” he agrees as he takes her hand in his and pulls it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against her knuckles. “Sweet dreams then, Ruth.”

“Sweet dreams, Harry,” she sighs and he can tell that she's already beginning to relax into sleep.

He smiles and lies down, still holding her hand in his as he closes his eyes in contentment and tries not to think about the fact that he's in bed with Ruth, and sooner than he expects, he's fast asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

She wakes up feeling blissful and it takes her a moment to realise why, but as she returns to consciousness, her happiness begins to fade somewhat into a feeling of acute embarrassment as she realises that she's practically squashing Harry. First she becomes aware of her face nestled in his neck, her lips mere millimetres from his soft, warm skin, so that all she has to do is pucker up or stick her tongue out just a little and she'll be tasting him, exploring him, savouring him. He's so tantalisingly close that she almost gives in to her desire before she's distracted by the smell of him, his very masculine, Harry scent flooding her nostrils as she inhales, almost overpowering her and making her insides melt and churn with want in seconds even as she tries to tell herself that she should probably pull back right about now. 'Surely it's too soon, isn't it?' she thinks briefly before she shelves the thought for a little longer as her awareness moves lower to her upper body which is draped across his, her left shoulder resting over his heart, her breast pressed snugly into the seam between his chest and arm, her arm looped round him, her fingers tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck which are begging to be stroked, twisted and tugged. Her fingers begin to flex involuntarily as the thought crosses her mind, but luckily, or perhaps not so luckily, she's distracted by a slight movement against her hip and her attention moves lower to his hardness trapped between their bodies. The realisation that he wants her as much as she does him almost has her self-control in tatters, but she manages to cling to it and shift her attention away from his arousal to her legs, that are wrapped around his left one, and his thigh pressing firmly against her heat.

His hand moves a fraction against her lower back where it's resting, his palm pressing against her skin under her camisole, his fingers spread wide as if he's trying to reach as much of her as possible without disturbing her sleep and it suddenly dawns on her that he's awake, and though clearly extremely aroused by her proximity, he's being very sweet about it and letting her sleep despite how uncomfortable he must be. She wonders how long he's been awake as suddenly all embarrassment is gone, and she thinks, 'to hell with it.' She's known Harry for far longer than any other man she's ever dated and has been in love with him for years, so this can hardly be called rushing into things by any stretch of the imagination. For a moment, she struggles to decide what she wants to do first, kiss him, stroke him or grind against him, until she realises that she doesn't have to choose, and with a moan of deep desire, she does all three. Her fingers curl into his hair, her lips pressing against his neck, sucking and licking his soft skin alternately as she pushes her pelvis forward, grinding herself against his thigh and pushing her hip against his hardness.

She hears him gasp and then groan from somewhere deep in his chest, the vibrations travelling through her, exciting her even more as her insides clench with want. “Harry,” she breathes, shifting her weight further onto him until her left thigh is across his lower abdomen, his erection pressing against her entrance through three layers of material and yet still almost scorching her with its heat. She pushes down towards him, the intensity of her need for him making her moan loudly and her muscles tighten with desire.

She lifts her head then to look at him, dimly wondering why he's not responding as enthusiastically as she'd expect any man to do under the circumstances. His eyes are closed, his brow furrowed in concentration, his facial muscles tense as he struggles for control. “Harry?” she whispers and watches as his eyes slide open and focus on her, and they're almost black with lust, his irises mere slivers of dark hazel. “You said, all I even had to do was ask,” she murmurs, just to make sure that there's no ambiguity left about what it is she wants, knowing that it's probably his damned sense of honour that's holding him back because he hasn't really been participating in any of this so far. “I'm asking now, Harry. I want to feel your hands on me, I want your lips on mine, and I want _this_ ,” she whispers as she reaches her hand down over her left thigh and slides a finger up his hardness, making him gasp, “inside me. Make love to me, Harry.” He opens his mouth to say something and she knows instinctively what it's going to be. “I'm sure,” she whispers.

“Ruth,” he groans her name with such longing as to leave her aching for him, but before she has a chance to do or feel anything more, his right hand slips into her hair and he pulls her head down to kiss her, his self-control obliterated as the passion inside him is unleashed and she's caught up in a whirlwind of sensation and emotion that robs her of all reason. She clutches at his shoulders as he draws her firmly against him, his hardness still pressing against her entrance, making her centre spasm in anticipation and her juices flow in need, his tongue seeking access to her mouth, slipping across her lips and coaxing them open. She moans as she opens her mouth and lets him in, her tongue moving forward to tangle with his in welcome, her fingers slipping into his hair as her right hand slides down his side over his vest, seeking access to his warm, flushed skin. His hands have got the same idea and are already under her camisole, his nails raking over her back, one hand slipping to her side, his thumb reaching round to caress her breast, his other hand sliding under the waistband of her pyjamas and knickers, kneading her left buttock a few times before his fingers move round to caress her wet folds.

She moans deeply at the sensation of them sliding across her sex, and almost without realising what she's doing, she presses herself towards them, and as his middle finger slips into her tender heat, she has to release his lips with a gasp of deep pleasure. He growls then, an animal sound that has her hair rising up in goosebumps all over her body and her insides clenching tightly, and next moment, he's flipped her onto her back and is leaning over her and sliding his finger ever so slowly into her deepest part, his lust filled eyes devouring her as she arches her back, needing more, her fingers and toes curling into the sheets and his shoulders as she pants his name.

She feels him pull his finger out then and whimpers in disappointment before she feels his hands grab hold of her pyjamas and underwear, and he pulls them off, sitting up between her legs and pulling the covers with him, the cool air of the room swirling around her hot sex, adding fuel to the fire inside her. “My God, Ruth, you're so beautiful,” she hears him say in a hoarse whisper, and when she opens her eyes to look at him, there is so much emotion in his gaze that it almost brings tears to her eyes. Her heart is still thundering in her chest, but the urgency that was in her a moment ago is gone and a sense of wonder has replaced it, so that everything about this moment is heightened in her awareness. She watches him as he slowly lifts his hands to her knees, pausing for a moment before he allows them to glide down her thighs, his thumbs brushing across her inner, sensitive flesh until they tuck into the seam where her legs meet her body, gently brushing the edges of her pubic hair. He pauses here for a moment before he lifts his thumbs and strokes around her sex softly in an arc, making her whimper and long for more. He sighs then and leans forwards, bathing her in his hot breath before his lips and tongue find her heat and she's lost in a world of colours and sensations hitherto unknown to her. He sucks and licks and nips and strokes her until she comes with an intense cry of pleasure as a feeling unlike any she's ever known before rocks her body from her core out to every single cell and back again.

When she's recovered enough to move, she opens her eyes and finds him watching her, his gaze warm and softened by love. “I've wanted to do that for years, Ruth,” he murmurs softly, leaning over her, pressing his soft belly against hers as he supports his weight on his elbows and cups her cheeks with his hands. He scans her face intently before meeting her gaze once more and murmuring urgently, “ _Years,_ Ruth _._ What the hell took us so long?”

It's a rhetorical question, she knows and yet she can feel his frustration and see the sadness in his eyes that flickers there for just a moment. “Priorities, Harry,” she smiles, wishing to dispel the hurt she sees in his gaze. “We had our priorities all wrong, but we're older now and, hopefully, wiser so we can make sure that we shift them around a little so that _this..._ us is at the top of our list.”

“Yes,” he murmurs, giving her a warm smile and soft kiss. “Yes, my wise, brilliant Ruth.”

“And,” she adds with a mischievous grin, “if we do _that_ , Harry, hopefully we'll still be enjoying _this_ for many years to come.” She lifts her head and kisses his lips softly before pulling back and stressing, “ _Years_ , Harry.”

The passionate kiss he gives her following her words, renders her incapable of clear thought, let alone speech. Dimly she realises that he's not actually wearing anything any more, and for a split second, she wonders when he'd stripped before all thought dissolves again in the face of his new assault on her senses. Her hands glide over his back, delighting in feeling his warm, smooth skin for the first time, slipping all the way down to his bum and squeezing it tightly, pulling his pelvis against her and feeling his hard length dig into her hip. He releases her lips with a deep groan of desire and rolls off her onto his side, pulling her camisole up, the last remaining garment between them.

She sits up to pull it over her head, and even before she's managed to lower her arms again, his mouth has closed around one nipple, his hand cupping and kneading her other breast. The sensation is exquisite and has her leaning back, thrusting her chest towards him as her hands connect with the bed and her head rolls back. “Oh, God, Harry,” she sighs, the heat of his mouth and the firm strokes of his tongue sending waves of desire pulsing through her straight to her centre until she cannot stand it any more and she has to feel him inside her. “Now, Harry. Please,” she begs, pulling him towards her with her hands on his shoulders as she falls backwards onto the bed. “I need you now.”

He kisses her soundly as he positions himself between her legs, pushing gently into her, joining their bodies for the first time. He feels exquisite, so wonderful and firm and perfect, their bodies fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle, and she can't help feeling like she's finally found what's been missing in her life; she's finally found her home.

She opens her eyes and finds him watching her, his dark hazel eyes hard, intense, hungry, and yet paradoxically, soft and loving at the same time, and in that moment, she can see all that she loves about him reflected in his gaze. “I love you, Harry,” she whispers. “I love you and I'm never going to let you go again.”

He smiles softly and pushes deeply into her again, dropping his forearms onto the bed on either side of her head, his soft belly pressing against hers and his fingers threading through her hair as she moans softly and her eyes slide shut at the intensity of the sensations cascading through her. “Then marry me, Ruth,” he growls into her ear as he moves inside her. “Marry me so I can protect you next time and no one can come between us; marry me so we can come home to each other every night; marry me so I can love you freely, like this, always. Marry me, Ruth.”

She tilts her hips to meet him again and moans softly at the pleasure coursing through her, feeling her heart swell at his words and beat even faster, hammering out an answer against her ribcage in Morse code of a language of its own. His mouth closes round her earlobe, making her gasp as the energy inside her builds to a crescendo, and with a cry of ecstasy, she topples over the edge and into oblivion, shattering into a million, glittering pieces.

When she comes back to herself, she finds him lying on top of her, his body delightfully heavy and solid against her, so she slips her arms round him and begins to caress his back, running her palm and fingers over his smooth, damp skin and humming in contentment. “God, Harry. Why did you never tell me you were so good at that? That was the best sex I've ever had,” she sighs and presses her lips against his cheek. “Thank you.”

“Mmmm,” he hums deep in his throat making his whole chest vibrate. “That's because we didn't just have sex, Ruth; we made love,” he mumbles, almost slurring his words in his state of exhausted bliss.

She smiles and presses her lips against his shoulder, sighing, “You still could have told me. I never knew it could be this good.”

“Neither did I, Ruth,” he murmurs. “Neither did I.”

“Are you saying that was the best sex you've ever had too?” she asks in surprise, stilling her hands on their journey across his back. He shifts his weight off her then, rolling onto his back beside her and she follows him over, lifting herself onto her right elbow to look down at him.

“Mmmm,” he hums, opening his eyes for a moment to look at her, the love she sees shining in them taking her breath away. “What do _you_ think?”

“I don't know,” she stammers. “I'm not a very experienced lover, Harry, and I know you've had-”

His finger presses against her lips gently, forcing her to fall silent. “Ruth, you're not listening. All that's irrelevant. I've never loved anyone like I do you... with my entire being. Had I come without you even touching me once, I'm sure I would have enjoyed it more than any sexual encounter in my entire life. As it is, you were amazing and we were spectacular together because we made love. And I know that every time with you will be just as wonderful.” He smiles and closes his eyes, mumbling, “Now let me sleep, woman, so I can recover and we can do it all over again.”

She laughs softly and lowers her head to his shoulder, feeling his arms tighten around her, drawing her close as she sighs in utter bliss and closes her eyes, and just as she's about to drop off, she hears him add softly, “I believe I may have asked you something important in the heat of the moment just now, Ruth, and I wanted to make it perfectly clear that it doesn't matter if your answer is the same as it was two days ago... If I keep asking for long enough, one day my timing will be perfect and you'll say yes. After all, you've already promised to never let me go.” She grins at that and turns her head, pressing a kiss against his chest right over his heart and sighing in contentment as she settles back against his shoulder, falling asleep with a smile on her lips for the second time today, and the first time in many, many years.


	5. Chapter 5

_Later that evening_

 

He knows he's whistling but he can't help himself; he just doesn't want to stop. For the first time in years, he just doesn't care. He's happy and that's all that matters – that and Ruth. Perhaps he should be more cautious, especially after what happened last time, but everything's different this time round – _she's_ different. She wants this as much as he does and that makes all the difference in the world. He smiles as he stops before her front door and rings the bell.

“Hi,” she says as she opens it and steps back to let him in, smiling up at him before turning to close the door behind him.

“Hi,” he murmurs when she turns to face him, letting his eyes roam over her beloved face that he's missed so much already even though he's spent most of the day with her and only left her about three hours ago to go home and get changed for tonight. “I've missed you,” he adds before he can stop himself, but the way her eyes light up and her smile broadens makes him glad he shared that particular thought with her.

“So did I,” she admits, so he kisses her, placing his hands on her hips and drawing her against him as he delves deeply into her mouth, feeling his desire for her ignite and burn in the pit of his belly, and he begins to lose himself in the heat of their passion as she responds unreservedly to him, her moans and gasps of pleasure mingling with his own. It's only the need for oxygen that makes him pull out of the kiss, and it's only as he rests his forehead against hers and takes deep lungfuls of air that he realises that both their hands have worked their way under each other's clothes and are resting against their flushed skin while their bodies have moved tightly together, his hips trapping hers against the wall behind her.

“I'm sor-” he begins as he slowly pulls back, a little appalled by his lack of self-control, but he doesn't get any further before she silences him with her lips on his.

“Don't you dare _ever_ apologise for kissing me like that, Harry Pearce,” she demands seriously, making him smile.

“I won't,” he grins and then gives her a smouldering look as he adds, “Besides, I'm not really sorry at all. I thoroughly enjoyed that and I'm glad you did too.”

She smiles and slips her arms over his shoulders, pulling his head down and kissing him soundly, and he has to struggle hard to keep himself from getting lost in this kiss too. He pulls back and rests his forehead against hers again, waiting for them both to catch their breath before he says determinedly, “Dinner,” trying to remind himself why he's here. “I promised you dinner tonight.”

“Right,” she nods and smiles at him as he steps back. “I'll just nip to the loo and we can go.”

“All right,” he agrees, moving back to let her through and watching her gorgeous figure as she walks away from him, marvelling on how he failed to notice how beautiful she looks tonight in her lace, backless, knee-length, aubergine coloured dress. She slips into the bathroom and he takes himself off to the kitchen, needing a glass of water to moisten his dry mouth and a moment to clear his head. He's already had her twice today and yet he's ready for more, and though he understands why he can't get enough of her when he's been yearning for her for almost a decade, it still surprises him that his body's up to it at his age.

“Ready?” she asks from the doorway to the kitchen, interrupting his musings.

“Yes,” he smiles as he moves towards her, murmuring huskily, “You look beautiful, Ruth. I have half a mind to skip dinner and take you back to bed for dessert.”

“We'd better get out the house quickly then,” she replies, giving him a wonderful impish smile, “because I'm actually starving. Somehow I didn't manage to get much to eat today since breakfast.”

“Mmmm,” he hums, stopping before her and lifting his hand to push a stray strand of her hair back behind her ear. “Neither did I. I was far too pleasantly engaged to bother with food. I was busy nourishing my starving soul.”

“God, Harry,” she exhales, shaking her head at him as he drops his hand from her face and reaches for her coat, holding it open for her to slip on. “You say the most... wonderful, poetic things at times. I can't quite believe you're the same person I see every day at work. Where... _how_ do you keep all this... gentleness and beauty hidden all the time?”

“Habit,” he shrugs, feeling a little embarrassed. “I've spent a lifetime doing it.” It's not a side of himself that he usually shares, though he's old enough and wise enough now to no longer see it as a weakness as he'd done throughout his youth. He watches as tears gather in her eyes and frowns in confusion, unable to account for her sudden change in mood. “What's wrong, Ruth?” he asks hesitantly, lowering his arms, his hands still holding her coat open.

“Nothing,” she shakes her head and brushes away her tears. “I've just realised... This is really going to work this time, isn't it, Harry?”

“I hope so, Ruth,” he nods earnestly, releasing her coat with one hand and reaching up to cup her face. “I know it won't always be this easy, but I really hope we can do this. And as much as it depends on me, I'm determined to work hard at it. I'll do _anything_ for this to work, Ruth. I'm tired of being alone, of living without you.”

“Me too, Harry,” she smiles, and leaning forward, she adds in a conspiratorial whisper, “and you know how stubborn I can be when I choose.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to ourillustriousbrotherhood for her very helpful and generous feedback on this particular fic. As always, reviews are most welcome and very much appreciated. Cheers, S.C.


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